The Totally True Adventures of Sara Sidle: Pin Up
by automatic-badgirl
Summary: Greg and Sara silliness involving the discovery of hidden kinks, questionable lingerie, sultry makeovers, killer heels, and of course the timeless Bettie Page. As sweet and fluffy as cotton candy, not much plot but an amusing trifle nonetheless.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N Because it is summer, and because it is hot, and with the eager goading of the gang at CSI Files, I present this trifling "amuse-geule" ofGreg/Sara fluffiness to you all._

_Enjoy! (And remember that feedback--of any sort--does a body good)_

_--Badgirl_

* * *

_Snapshot _

Goosebumps pebbled Sara's naked skin as she stood peering into Greg's fridge. Nothing had changed since the last time she'd opened the fridge not more than ten minutes ago. Inside were two jars of salsa, both half empty, a desiccated lemon half, wrapped in saran like a bizarre futuristic mummy, and the remains of the last meal they'd eaten here, nearly two weeks ago now, in a Tupperware container that common sense told her wasn't worth opening—she had anyway, fuzzy grayish matter of indeterminate origin that was once vegetarian risotto greeted her when she had—assorted esoteric condiments, and six bottles of Sam Adams' finest chattered against each other when she sighed and swung the door closed cutting off the cheery glow of the fridge. The kitchen was plunged into gloom once more and Sara rubbed her bare arms against the chill that long minutes of standing in front of Greg's fridge contemplating her need for "just one beer" had given her.

She glanced at the clock, 2 pm, middle of the night for her and Greg considering they'd have to be up for shift in a few hours, and sighed. She really wanted that beer. She wondered if it would always be like that, if her first instinct would be to reach for the cold comfort of a beer, or if gradually, over time, she'd be able to get past that need. She looked at the fridge door again. The cheerful magnets there—3D plastic fruit, cartoon characters, and a truly hideous neon representation of a flamingo promoting its namesake casino were mute on the matter. But she thought she could almost see shrewd cunning in the flamingo's lurid gaze; as if it knew the beer wouldn't help her sleep, if perhaps she should consider gambling instead. Sara sourly flicked the flamingo with her finger.

"Whatever, Pinky…nice try. But I don't need you or the beer."

She turned and put on the kettle instead. If sleep wasn't an option, and after that last dream Sara was pretty sure it wasn't, she may as well take consolation in a cup of tea and maybe some of those pecan sandies, sly Greg had thought he'd hidden from her. While she waited for the water, Sara padded silently through the apartment, its shuttered midday dimness almost as familiar to her as her own apartment now, and leaning against the doorjamb carefully reached into Greg's bedroom and snagged one of his shirts from the floor where he'd dropped it. She told herself she was just checking for "freshness" and not trying to catch traces of Greg's scent when she buried her nose in the fabric as she watched him sleep. He was in his habitual sprawl; blanket wrapped around him twice, still managing to leave most of his ass exposed, she noticed with a grin, one hand shoved up underneath her pillow, invading her personal space even when he was unconscious. She knew she could awaken him, push the door wide open and run her cold hands along his arms until he woke up and turned to her, but she let him sleep. No sense in both of them being awake, besides she wasn't sure she wanted to tell him about her dream. Or even if she could—aloud—her dreams always sounded so silly to her; they were robbed of their terror once spoken, and she felt stupid then.

She made it back to the kitchen, cut the kettle off just as it started to send a tentative whistle of steam up the spout, and slipped into his shirt at the same time.

She grabbed her mug of tea, a handful of purloined cookies, and settled herself in a chair she'd dragged in front of the large window in his living room. Reaching out with her foot she pushed the heavy drapes apart until she was bathed in the intense light of a Vegas midafternoon, she could feel the heat reaching her even through the double glazed glass and cool conditioned air of the apartment—good—maybe the sunlight would make her drowsy. Leaving one of her feet propped on the window ledge she cast about for something to occupy her while she waited for oblivion, anything to keep her brain from turning over the images from her dream. The small still form, the pale fingers, so tiny and perfect. Even the bright sunshine couldn't stop her from shivering. Anytime they had an abuse case it was hard, but God, kids were the worst. Rationally, she knew the dream was merely her brain's way of trying to process the horror but Sara hadn't realized she'd started to brood on it until she felt a sharp pain in her thumb. She'd chewed the skin raw again and hadn't noticed. She frowned in annoyance; sometimes having a one-track mind was a curse. Okay, time for a distraction.

She spied Greg's collection of "coffee table" books. He'd tried telling her that the books had made the ladies think he was cultured and a deep thinker and stuff, but he couldn't quite keep his face straight when he did. Neither could she when she saw most of them had been glossy paeans to exotic automobiles or devoted to "erotic art".

"This is porn, Greg," she'd told him at the time.

"What! A Lamborghini isn't porn."

Sara had flopped the book open to the middle where a large gateway fold opened to reveal the slick organic contours of a car sensuously beaded with water.

"Tell me that isn't a money shot."

"How does a nice girl like you know about the money shot?" He'd pretended to be shocked but her words had put a devilish gleam into his eyes.

Sara felt a frisson of desire when she recalled where the rest of that conversation had taken them. She was pretty sure all the warmth she was feeling in her belly wasn't just from the mug of tea she had propped there. She grunted as she leaned over awkwardly and grabbed the topmost book off of the pile. Sucker was heavier than she expected…

"Shit!" Sara cursed softly as hot tea slopped over the rim of the mug and soaked through the shirt. Quickly she set the tea down and jumped up. After dancing around for a minute to cool her reddened skin, she looked down at the book she still held: _"Bettie Page: Queen of the Pin-up's"_.

Sara thought the black haired woman smiling saucily up at her on the cover looked familiar, so this was Bettie Page. She opened the book and flipped through a few pages, she didn't notice when she slowly sank back down into the chair again, so absorbed was she in the book.

* * *

_More to come, wherein Sara loses her temper and Greg gets a rude awakening..._


	2. She Gives Great Face

_Here's the next bit, some swearing and adult situations, gentle readers. (hence the M rating)_

_Enjoy!_ _And know that feedback, of any kind,is appreciated._

_--Badgirl__

* * *

__She Gives Great Face_

The text, what little there was of it, was breathless and admiring, if not a tad grandiose. _"Surely, Bettie Page set the standard for postwar sexiness, her dark gleeful gaze and eloquent lustiness acted as a binary opposition to that other perennial icon of femininity: the Blonde, as evidenced by Marilyn and her kin…" _

Sara snorted, this "icon of femininity" sure looked like some random 1950's babe in the nude to her. She flipped a few more pages; she grudgingly had to admit that judging by the grin on Bettie's face, she did look like she was having a whole lot of fun. Those get-ups though? Sara was all for fancy lingerie but she restricted herself to the standard bra and panty combo, with the odd thong thrown into the mix for variety. But this, this was a whole other level of lingerie; sheer stockings and lacy garter belts, elaborate corsets, some sort of see-thru skirt deelie…How did women walk around with all that on anyway? Sara silently thanked whoever invented microfibre.

She turned another page and frowned; yet another shot of Bettie posing, knees spread, back arched, devilish grin in place, wearing a leopard print bra and panty set. A very familiar bra and panty set, actually. One that looked an awful lot like the bra and panty set had Greg surprised her with last month, "just because you'd look so incredibly righteous in this, Sar'…a real hot jungle momma!" he'd told her. And despite finding the whole thing slightly ridiculous and a little outré, she'd accepted his gift and worn it for him. Sara flushed, no she hadn't just worn it for him…she'd taunted him, and teased him with it, strutting around giggling until finally he'd chased her around her apartment while growling and making other silly cat noises and the whole time that jerk had been pretending she was some stupid pin-up girl!

"WhaddayerdoinupSar?"

Sara yelped and lurched up out of her seat, heart pounding. Furiously, she turned to face a very bleary Greg, regarding her quizzically and trying to hide a monster yawn.

"You jerk!" She belted him with the book. Ineffectually he tried to defend himself.

"Whoa! Stop! I'm sorry I thought you heard me! Ow! Stop hitting me!"

"No, I won't, I should break your stupid head open," she raised the book threateningly.

Greg looked at her, confusion and the beginnings of anger all over his face.

"Look, I'm sorry I scared you but—"

"I wasn't scared." Sara said hotly, ignoring her racing heart. "Explain this!" she thrust the book with its incriminating photo towards him.

"Explain Bettie Page?" The anger was wiped away by honest bafflement. "Well, she was this super hot pin-up girl from—"

"Not her," she snapped, "the outfit she's wearing."

"Uhhh…it's cute?" he ventured.

"Why do I have an outfit that's just like this one, an outfit _you_ gave to me?"

"Because I thought you would look sexy in it?" Greg's face wore the slightly hopeful yet wary expression of a man who wasn't quite sure how he'd earned feminine ire, but who vainly hoped like hell to emerge unscathed.

"Because you wanted me to act like some slutty pin-up."

"Only if you want to—hey!" Greg must be waking up, he dodged her swipe at him that time. "Whoa, let's all just chill here okay?" He approached her, hands up to defend himself against possible attacks. "If it wasn't for the bruises I know I'm going to have later, I'd swear I was having a weird ass dream…Sara, what is going on?" He tried to grasp her hands, when she wouldn't let him, he encircled her wrists and lightly stroked with his thumbs. Sara ignored the shivers the motion sent up her arms. She jerked away and sat stiffly on the couch. Undeterred, Greg sat down beside her. "Why are you so pissed?"

"Because you want me to be like her," she jabbed an angry finger at the book.

"I'm pretty sure I've never asked you to pose naked so I could photograph you, I may be reckless but I'm not suicidal." he joked.

Sara huffed an angry sigh, "No, you want me to act like some slutty pin-up girl, because you have a major boner for this Bettie Page hootchie and you bought me the underwear—" Sara broke off and glared at Greg who had the temerity to be chuckling at her.

"Boner? Hootchie? I'm sorry, Sara did I just wake up in 1989? Alright calm down," he pulled her back onto the couch beside him, "Look, I'm a guy. And like most guys I like sexy chicks, and because I happen to be dating a sexy chick—woman—sorry, I thought you'd look hot—nice—pretty…_pretty_ in that lingerie, which is why I bought it for you in the first place. Because lets face it, Sara, you're smoking hot."

She sniffed, unimpressed.

"It's not empty flattery, Sara, most women I know wouldn't have been cool enough to parade around just to fulfill my admittedly lame Tarzan fantasy…you will, and that makes you all kinds of sexy."

"Tarzan? Why were you making cat noises then? No don't answer that, why do you want me to be her?"

"What? I don't want you to be Bettie Page…I want you to be you. That's enough for me…" he paused and she nudged him,

"What? Tell me."

"Well, I guess there is something about you that reminds me of her."

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"Me?"

"_Yes!_ You, Sara Sidle. You have that same sort of—"

"Hair color?"

"I was gonna say air of sexy abandon."

"Me?"

"Here we go again…" Greg gently grabbed her chin and kissed her. "Just take the damn compliment okay? You, Sara, are so unbelievably sexy, when we're together and we…"

"Do the things we do?" she offered.

"Yeah. When you let go, you have the best…" Greg blushed but gamely kept going, "fu—uh, sex face I've ever seen. There. Happy?"

"You were going to say fuck, weren't you? You were actually going to tell me I have a good fuck face?" Sara grinned at him; he was so cute when he was flustered. Greg rallied, his relief at having dodged another random bullet of female eccentricity making him bold.

"Like a porn star babe. Just thinking about it makes me hard, also when you get all crude on me and say fuck, by the way."

"You are a sick sick man." so why was her hand stroking him now?

He sucked in an unsteady breath, "Not that I'm not appreciative…"

"But?" her hand slowed, her fingers teasingly brushed him.

"Uh…" Greg swallowed and firmly put his own hand on top of hers, stilling her, "can't think when you do that."

She squeezed gently and smiled when he couldn't resist arching up into her grasp.

"Or that," he said warningly.

"Thinking's overrated," she licked her lips and slid to her knees in front of him.

"Oh damn. Can we fight like this every day?" he breathed.

"It wasn't a fight," she said primly, "because we both agree you can be a kinky jerk."

He laughed and she grinned, tongue curling between her teeth. He looked down at her and cupped her cheek.

"There—right there. You are so incredibly sexy right now," he said softly. "Bettie hasn't got anything on you, no woman has."

Sara knew she was no pin up, she was kneeling on cheap Berber, wearing a tee shirt with stains on it, some of which she'd put there, she knew she had bed head and bags under each eye to round out the picture of an overtired, stressed, public servant but just then, basking in that patch of hot sunlight in front of her lover she felt like the sexiest woman in Vegas, maybe even the whole world.

She leaned forward and blew a teasing breath across him. She felt Greg's hand slide through her hair to cup her nape, she loved it when he held her like that, right there, she could almost feel his thumb stroking lightly on her neck but instead he held her still. Surprised, she looked up into his face.

"Sara, trust me most of me is kicking myself right now but, I need to get this straight with you. You know I don't want to be with anyone else right?"

She rolled her eyes and leaned an impatient elbow against his thigh, "Yes. I do."

He almost looked absurdly thankful; a small part of her couldn't resist tormenting him a little because kinky jerks do things like that to one another, "Well…this whole Bettie Page thing?"

"Yeah?" the concern was back, it was endearing really, his earnestness.

She looked up at him as innocently as she could, as if unaware of how close her mouth was to him, as if she couldn't hear his ragged breathing.

"You really think I'm like her? That you could see me doing that, those things…like with the whip?"

"Well maybe not the whip thing—maybe only if you were real drunk—or lost a bet?" he said hopefully.

She looked flatly at him.

"Right. No whips. But sexy like her, hell yes."

"But I never act like that...putting it all…out there."

"Sure you do."

"When?" she challenged.

"When you're with me."

"That's different."

Greg sighed in frustration. Sara felt sorry for him, "Hey man, you were the one who wanted to talk…"

"I know...I just don't know when to shut up do I?"

She leaned in and barely licked him, tongue flicking him gently. His hand tightened gratifyingly on the back of her neck.

"No you don't," she replied playfully. "so let me give you some advice, Greg…shut up."

"Yes'm."


	3. Strike A Pose

_A short but sweet chapter, perfect for a lazy Sunday_. 

_--Badgirl_

* * *

_Strike a Pose_

Later, lying in a sweaty tangled heap on the living room floor, Sara rubbed her sore knees. Tiny red patches had started to sting; she hoped she wouldn't have to kneel at work for a least a couple of days. The last time this had happened, Catherine had looked speculatively at her in the locker room as they'd changed, Sara had claimed she'd tripped while jogging.

"I keep getting rug burns from this carpet you know," she raised up her leg and showed Greg the pale skin marred by the tender red patch. He leaned over a grabbed her knee and kissed it.

"Well if you weren't such a nympho maybe we could make it into my bedroom once in a while," he drawled lazily.

"Me? Whatever, you're the one who's all," she lowered her voice "I need you so much, gotta have you, baby…"

Greg snorted. "Yeah well, I'm pretty sure everyone in the complex heard the noises you were making."

Sara blushed. As hard as she tried to keep it down, she sort of forgot herself and where she was. It never used to happen, maybe it was part of that sexual peak turning thirty was supposed to bring on. She covered her face in embarrassment. She thought she'd been getting some funny looks from some of Greg's neighbors; she thanked god they worked at night, and were only offending a few.

"I wasn't that loud. And try not to look so damn pleased with yourself when you say that," she punched him in the shoulder, not too hard, but hard enough to wipe the satisfied smile off his face.

"Ow. Hey, what's with all the hitting, maybe I _should_ get you a whip…"

"You'd love that wouldn't you?"

"My birthday is coming up you know."

"Dream on, weirdo." She rolled and snuggled closer to him, sleepy now, Greg reached up and dragged a blanket off of the couch and threw it over them.

"Dear _Penthouse_…I never thought it would happen to me but my girlfriend surprised me one day with a birthday spanking I'll never forget," he spread his hands overhead as if envisioning the article. Sara giggled drowsily and closed her eyes. She felt Greg's arm wrap around her shoulder and pull her close. She knew she'd be stiff from sleeping on the floor, later, but right now she felt too wonderful to move.

"It's a gift that would keep on giving," he teased.

"Yerafreak," she mumbled, drifting on the edge of sleep.

She heard the tiny beeps as he set the alarm on his watch; they couldn't afford to both oversleep for shift again. She was pretty sure Grissom hadn't completely bought her excuse of a flat tire, seeing as Greg had said the exact same thing. Note to self: they must remember to coordinate the white lies next time.

"Yeah, but you love it."

She pressed her lips into her favorite spot on the side of his neck, mouth feeling the rippled skin from his burn scar as she nuzzled him.

"Yeah…I do…I love…" she managed before her breathing evened out as she slipped into a doze. Greg settled himself more comfortably against her and listened to the faint diesel rhythm of her snoring.

"Love it too, every minute with you," Greg breathed into her ear, oblivious to the slight smile that flitted across her face before she sank deeper into sleep.

* * *

_Next… Sara goes shopping…and discovers Rosalind. _


	4. Dressing the Part

_I am happy to report there is a Rosalind, and she's just as wonderful in RL as she is in my story. I blame her for my heavy duty addiction to the stuff. (You'll see, trust me)_

_Enjoy. Feedback is always appreciated. _

_--Badgirl_

* * *

_Dressing the Part _

Sara pulled into the parking lot of the strip mall. There was a tiny grocery store wedged in amongst the check cashing businesses, clothing stores, doctors' and law offices. She was way on the other side of town, but after almost two weeks of solid work graveyard was close to closing two active cases, and they'd just gotten some promising new DNA evidence on a murder Sara had been afraid might have to be kicked over to the cold case detectives. She was dead tired but was happy to have remembered to stop and get the basics; she craved something simple and homemade for dinner, even if it was only a bowl of cereal or a tuna sandwich.

It was midmorning but Sara was coming off a fourteen-hour shift. Seeing that light at the end of the tunnel, case wise, buoyed her steps and she almost floated through the aisles of the store. She even tipped the eager bag boy who helped load her paltry few groceries into her trunk. She stood and stretched and took a moment to just enjoy the sun on her face.

The light made mirrors of most of the plate glass windows of the storefronts; the usual odd mix of high and low end businesses you only seemed to find in places like Vegas. The law offices of Belton, Boshart and Associates stood next to a seedy looking liquor store. Must explain the _"DUI? Our Specialty"_ sign discreetly taped to the window closest to the liquor store, Sara mused.

A store at the end caught her eye, _"Rosalind's"_ was written in flowing gold script over the windows, which were draped in pale pink silk. Rosalind's what? she wondered. Intrigued, Sara wandered closer; it seemed to be a clothing store. She could just make out the mannequins in the window behind the splashes of sunlight.

Drawing near, Sara could see the mannequins were wearing not clothes but delicate peignoirs and filmy nightgowns. It was a lingerie store. An upscale one at that, because one of the dummies was dressed in a black lacy La Perla teddy. Sara turned to go, curiosity satisfied, but then paused. The display in the store window reminded her of the pictures from Greg's book, this was serious lingerie, a definite cut above Victoria's Secret. It wouldn't hurt to just go in and have a look, she had a minute or two to spare. She pulled open the door and went inside, all thoughts of crawling home for a quick supper then bed forgotten.

A gentle chime sounded when she opened the door and stepped into the shop. Sara's first impression was of pink. The walls were pale pink striped wallpaper, the carpeting was a deep rose, and even the air smelled kind of pink. And lingerie, lingerie was everywhere. Elegant tables displayed a rainbow assortment of bras and panties. Racks close to her overflowed with gowns and robes and other long silky things Sara couldn't identify. Posters in gilded frames displayed images of languid women in Lejaby, La Perla, Aubade, and Rigby and Peller wearing bras and panties, tiny scraps of thongs, garter belts, and wistful dreamy expressions. As if strolling through the countryside clad only in their underwear was the real secret to inner peace and contentment. The whole place was girly, too girly for Sara's tastes. She turned to go.

"Hello. Can I help you?"

Sara faced the woman who had spoken, she was blonde and petite, with short tousled hair and gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looked matronly at first glance, but then Sara took in the very short skirt on the stylish business suit she was wearing, the pale cream fishnet stockings and two, no three-inch heels the woman was wearing. Sara quickly revised the mental image of somebody's mom. The woman had to be at over fifty but she wore an air of confident sexiness that struck Sara as being very European and out of place in Vegas.

"Uh, I was just browsing," Sara moved into the store, she felt compelled now to at least do a cursory sweep. The woman smiled merrily at her and held out her hand for Sara to shake. Surprised, Sara let her hand be enfolded into a warm and confident grip.

"Well feel free to look around as long as you like my dear, my name is Rosalind, let me know if there's anything special you need."

"I will, thanks," Sara found herself grinning back at the tiny woman; she was so sincere and genuine.

Sara wandered through the store, idly looking this and that. She was struck by a display of beautiful hand-embroidered corsets pinned to a backdrop of shimmering satin.

"Gorgeous aren't they? I almost hate to sell them," Rosalind appeared again with a tiny cup of espresso that she offered to Sara, "They're like works of art."

"Oh no, that's okay," Sara demurred.

"Nonsense, I'm having one so you may as well join me. Keep me company on my break." While she may not look like a mom, Rosalind definitely had the manner. Sara took the coffee and sipped politely, the flavor hit her tongue and she widened her eyes and sipped again.

"This is excellent."

"Isn't it? I smuggled some back with me during my last buying trip to France," her eyes gleamed wickedly as she confessed her petty crime. "My husband thinks I should just pay the duty but we all need our little thrills don't we?" she winked, and Sara blushed, catching the meaning behind Rosalind's comment.

"Uh…yeah." Sara bit her lip and looked at the corsets, torn.

Rosalind waited patiently, and Sara just knew she'd heard weirder things than what she was about to confess.

"Greg. My boyfriend—" why did it still feel strange to say that? "He likes…" Deep breath. "Bettie Page. That whole pin-up girl thing and well I was wondering…" Sara fell silent.

Rosalind beamed at her and said smoothly, "If I had anything here that might help you achieve that…retro look?"

Sara nodded, relieved she was acting like it was a perfectly normal request.

"I'm sure I have just the thing for you, any particular color?"

"Black, I guess."

"Of course with your porcelain skin, black would be an ideal choice, and very much in keeping with Bettie's style. Bra and panty set or…" Rosalind waved towards the corsets.

"Those. I've never worn one and I kind of want to…surprise him."

"Then surprise him we shall, he won't know what hit him when I'm finished with you," Rosalind all but purred, "sit dear," she waved to a velvet chair, "finish your coffee and let me see what I have."

Sara blinked and obeyed her, feeling she didn't quite know what had hit her either.

Three hundred dollars later—did I really just spend three hundred dollars? On underwear?—Sara left the store a little dazed but oddly happy. Rosalind was incredible; she'd spent over an hour showing Sara a variety of corsets, basques, and merry widows, and hadn't batted an eye when she'd had to teach Sara how to put them on. She'd just stepped into the spacious dressing room and helped her out, never once making her feel anything less than beautiful. Sara had been touched; it had given her a glimpse of what shopping with a mom might've been like. Never pushy, Rosalind had offered garments in a range of prices to Sara, but once she had put on the black satin merry widow from Aubade she had been sold.

"May I suggest these as well?" Rosalind had presented a pair of silk stockings from Italy. She flipped over the package to show the back seam. "These come with Cuban heels."

"Shoes?" Sara had said, baffled.

Rosalind had smiled and explained that "Cuban heels" were an old fashioned look of a black heel running up into the back seam. "In these, the whole foot is in a contrasting black material, not only are they historically accurate but they tend to be sturdier too, they can take some wear and tear." She then quirked a knowing eyebrow at Sara, who had been helpless to prevent the laughter that arch look had generated.

"But shoes are a definite must to complete this outfit. Most men love a really sexy high heel. It's such a turn on for them. I know my own husband sometimes won't let me take mine off…" Rosalind smiled dreamily and Sara was aware her mouth had dropped into a shocked O.

Rosalind caught her look and laughed breezily, "Well that's why he bankrolled this place in the first place, 'Rosie,' he said to me, 'if you're going to be spending all that money on the stuff, you might as well sell it too.' This store is a just hobby really, and I know he isn't complaining when I _preview_ upcoming collections for him."

She nudged Sara conspiratorially. Grinning, Sara gave in and bought the stockings. She had made a mental note to pick up some fuck-me heels too.

Sara sat in her car for a minute and gazed over at the pale pink bag in the passenger seat, three hundred dollars or not, she was hooked. She'd be seeing Rosalind again.

"Greg is one lucky bastard and he doesn't even know it yet."

She started the car, turned up the radio, and sang along all the way home, stealing happy glances at the bag as she did.

* * *

_Next: Wherein Sara has run-ins with suspicious co-workers and the need for clandestine text messages..._


	5. Setting the Scene

_A/N: I apologize to all my readers for taking so long to update. My computer at home is having some "issues". Anyway, two chapters for the price of one, mea culpa. _

* * *

_Setting the Scene_

"What's with you today?" Catherine fell into step beside Sara, grinning broadly.

"What do you mean?" Sara slowed and looked curiously at Catherine causing a harried lab tech to almost bump into her, the man stepped around Sara with an audible huff and peevish frown. Catherine took her arm and steered her out of the path of traffic.

"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you've just been acting all sunshine and lollipops today."

"Thanks Cath." Sara said sarcastically. "Can I be in a good mood without people wondering if I'm okay?'

"Of course you can, but you have to admit, it's a bit…odd for you. I mean you were singing to yourself just then."

Sara wasn't aware she'd been singing, again. Nick had caught her earlier in the shift too. Dammit, she was going to have to tone it down. It was hard, there was a sizzling little bubble of nerves and excitement welling up inside her, tonight was the night! And she'd been running on adrenaline and anticipation all shift.

"So…" Catherine leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper, "who's the lucky guy?"

"What!" Sara blanched and almost dropped the case file she was holding. "There's no guy!"

Catherine looked at her skeptically "C'mon Sara, I know hot date vibes when I see them."

"Honestly, there's no guy." Sara forced hearty confidence into her voice denying the prickle of sweat just starting on her forehead. "I'm just in a good mood, it's a beautiful day, the sun is shining—"

"It's Vegas, the sun is always shining."

"Well there you go. All that sunshine must be good for me then." Sara started to edge away. "Yay for Vitamin D!"

"Mmm-hmm. Riiight." Catherine watched her make her escape, hands on her hips.

Sara backed away, grinning nervously until she bumped into another lab technician, muttering hasty apologies she turned and disappeared around a corner.

"Sunshine my ass." Catherine said suspiciously, "That girl is getting laid tonight." Her brow furrowed a moment, "Lucky her." She sighed and headed down the hall.

Sara ducked into the first empty lab she found. She really must come up with some better excuses, Vitamin D? How dumb, good thing she was a cop because she'd make a lousy criminal; she had no skill at lying. Just then her pager thrummed against her hip. Sara checked the display.

_"Coffee or Breakfast" _

Sara smiled. It was from Greg, the page was a code they used when they hadn't firmed up their plans for after shift. Breakfast meant they were heading to her place, coffee meant his.

She sent back: _"Groceries" _with a smile.

A few minutes later she got a call on her cell.

"Sidle."

"Hey it's me." Greg on the line, voice a little faint and tinny, he was out in Henderson with Grissom.

"Hey."

"Are you busy?" His voice grew even quieter, she imagined him at the scene finding a spare moment to call her. They'd gotten pretty good at having seemingly innocuous conversations in front of the others.

"It's okay I can talk, for a minute. Can you?"

"Sorry can't help you there." Someone must be in the vicinity.

"Right. So what can I help you with?"

"Regarding that earlier information you sent me?"

"Yep?"

"Can you just clarify that for me?"

"Groceries, means groceries, Greg. I have some errands to run and may actually be able to get out of here on time for a change. But later on after you're done, drop by for breakfast if you like…" Sara knew that Greg wouldn't be finished for a few hours yet, with luck that should give her just enough time. She had waited until they both had a night off that fell one after the other, and then she'd switched her shift with Sofia, claiming a doctor's appointment she couldn't reschedule. Greg still thought she was working tomorrow. Sara caught a glimpse of her face in the glass window of the lab, she looked quite devious, maybe a career in crime was within reach after all. She turned her back on her expression and went with her wicked impulses.

"I know you were hoping groceries maybe meant kinky games with food…maybe I'll pick up a can of whipped cream at the store just for you, would you like that?" She made sure she used her very best phone sex voice, rich and throaty.

A strangled noise on the other end then,

"Yes. That would be an affirmative. What an unusual development in…that case...we were discussing."

"See you later, freak." Sara chuckled and hung up the phone. She checked her watch; if she applied herself to those shell casings she could get out of here and start getting ready for Greg. She picked up her case file and headed for Ballistics, wholly unaware she'd started singing under her breath again.

* * *

_Next: Sara ventures into "hostile" territory..._


	6. Va Va Va Voom

_For Kimberly: because she's my girl. __

* * *

_

_Va-va-va-voom_

Shiny chrome and glass surfaces gleamed aggressively bright under intense halogen lighting. If there was any doubt that Sara was in the belly of the beast, the slim attenuated creature that swayed over to her, sneer fixed firmly in place, proved it.

"Can I help you?" The creature suggested in tones that offered ridicule; maybe, disdain; certainly, help: not at all.

Greg, it's for Greg, you have to look the part. Sara held onto that thought as she took a deep breath and announced in a clear firm voice.

"Do you do makeovers?"

The salesclerk at the Chanel counter lifted an over plucked brow arrogantly.

"Well, our clients usually receive the benefit of a skin care and color consultation with purchase…"

"Oh I'm planning on buying something." Dammit she sounded weak; there was no room for weakness during this exchange.

"Let me check my appointment book." The woman said unhelpfully. She flipped leisurely through the pages, Sara noticed her fingers were leaving sweaty prints on the slick glass surface of the woman's counter, she subtly ran her elbow over them and wiped them away, then pressed her hands close to her sides. Coolly beautiful women shot Sara curious glances as they floated through the cosmetic department at Neiman Marcus; she swallowed and surreptitiously checked herself over. She knew she didn't smell of death because she hadn't handled a body tonight, was it her clothes? Her hair? Sara tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and fixed her brittle smile more firmly in place.

"I'm sorry." The salesclerk said in a way that meant she really wasn't. "But the earliest I can fit you in is on Friday, does that suit?"

"No. I need it for today. Is there any way I can get a makeover today?" The salesclerk's smile became even haughtier as she caught the hint of desperation in Sara's voice.

"I'm sorry but I'm completely booked…it's usually best to book well in advance for things like this."

Like I'd know that, I get my makeup from Rite-Aid and Walgreen's. Sara thought bitterly, the last makeover I had was at Amy Barker's 13th birthday party when I slept over. Somehow Sara knew glittery purple eye shadow and baby blue liner wouldn't be the look she was aiming for.

"Oh come off it, Allison. You just want to get your inventory done." A brazen voice interrupted Sara's angry thoughts.

Two women glared at the Chanel salesclerk, one in a blue smock Sara thought might be Estee Lauder and the other in the clinical white uniform of the Clinique counter, Sara had always liked that uniform, because it was like a lab coat. They swooped in and bracketed Sara. Startled, she felt herself being led away.

"Allison's a bitch—" said the woman in blue, a slender Asian woman whose nametag said Mary-Lou.

"Not to mention lazy," piped the Clinique girl, a pretty blonde called Kimberley.

"Is it a makeover that you want?" Mary-Lou said. Sara nodded, a little dazed by the tag team action.

"I'll buy something." She stammered.

"Whatever, we don't care. We're bored and would much rather play with makeup than have to count lipsticks." Kimberly said.

So Sara found herself seated at the Estee Lauder counter as Mary-Lou "prepped and cleansed her skin in preparation for the make-up" while Kimberley watched and offered helpful comments and suggestions. Sara didn't realize it was that complicated, she just kind of slapped it on when she remembered to.

"So what are we doing?" said Mary-Lou expectantly, "just a new look for summer or what?"

"This." Sara thrust the wrinkled photocopy of Bettie Page across the counter. "Can you do this?'

"Oooo retro, very cool." Kimberley chirped. "Is it for a party?"

"Kind of." Sara replied, feeling her cheeks heat up; hoping it was the Ph balancing toner Mary-Lou had applied that was doing it.

"Say no more, one retro look coming up. I assume you'll be wanting the stay-on lipstick?"

"Stay-on?" Sara squeaked.

"You know the kind that doesn't come off when you kiss somebody," said Kimberley with a slight smirk.

"Uh…yes please." Sara said faintly. How did all these women know? First Catherine, now these two total strangers, was she giving off some kind of scent?

"I'll leave you to it then Mary-Lou, lemme know when you're done."

Kimberley disappeared behind her own counter and Sara found herself enveloped in a warm flow of happy chatter that she was only expected to nod or grunt in reply to. Once again Sara had the impression of being swept into a world of womanly activity she'd never really been privy to before. It was kind of fun actually, Mary-Lou was cheerful and gossipy. Sara learned all about her kids, her husband, her husband's new Mercedes that Mary-Lou thought he'd paid too much for. The entire time, Mary-Lou dipped brushes and whisked powders onto Sara's face.

"So what do you do? Go like this—" Mary-Lou mimicked opening her eyes really wide. Sara complied, trying not to blink as she applied mascara.

"I'm a criminalist, I work for the police department."

"Ooo! How exciting! I don't get many police officers." Mary-Lou looked impressed.

"Well actually, I investigate the crime scenes after the police have been there, I collect the forensic evidence—"

"Like on a dead body?" Mary-Lou help up a tissue and Sara blotted her lips obediently.

"Yeah, sometimes the evidence is on the body, sometimes we find more during the autopsy."

"Oh my god that's so gross!" Mary-Lou said in a delighted tone. "I don't know if I could handle being around a dead body."

Sara smiled awkwardly, conscious of the feel of lipstick on her lips.

"Well I don't know if I could handle retail," she said ruefully.

"Yeah, at least your customers don't give you a hard time and yell at you do they, and if they do you can shoot them." Sara didn't quite know what to say to that but was saved from a reply when Mary-Lou held up a mirror. "All done, look at how gorgeous you look!"

Sara gazed in surprise at the woman staring back at her; it was her, but also not her. Mary-Lou had done something to her eyes and made them look sort of sleepy and sexy, framed with long dark lashes. Her skin was smoothly pale with no hint of her usual midday shine; scarlet lips broke into a surprised smile. She could hardly believe it was her.

"That's wonderful." Sara has been nervously expecting some sort of tarty mask, but this was perfect.

"Ohmigod! You look fabulous!" Kimberley came over. "He'll be putty in your hands."

"I hope so." Sara confessed shyly. Suddenly she was glad these two women had guessed her secret and were able to share in her excitement.

"Go get him girl." Mary-Lou had rung up her purchases and passed them over; Sara couldn't help herself and had bought not only the lipstick but the eye shadows as well.

"Come back and tell us all about it," said Kimberley.

"Yeah, we want details!" added Mary-Lou.

Sara waved at the two women as she left, despite her reservations she suspected she'd be back to visit these two as well. What was happening to her? She was turning into a regular girly-girl. Damn that man and his kinks.

She caught another glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror of her car and smiled, a little taken aback by the sexy woman smiling back at her. She blew herself a kiss and headed home.

* * *

_I promise to try and be more diligent about posting more regularly. Cursed computer! (glares at recalcitrant PC)_

_Next up: getting to the juicy bits very soon…_

_Feedback is loved and snuggled by me. _


	7. Two Minutes to Curtain

_You have all been so patient with me, and yet I still tease. Wicked Naughty Badgirl, no cookie for you...

* * *

_

_Two Minutes To Curtain_

She wouldn't look, wouldn't look, not yet. Sara inhaled and twisted the silky garment around, before she reached behind to do up the last few hooks at the back. Putting on these things by yourself was a bitch and a half; she felt another surge of gratitude for Rosalind, who had shown her the trick of doing it. Leaning forward Sara wiggled like a spastic cheerleader, making sure her breasts were firmly in the cups.

"Impressive…" Sara looked down at the smooth plump mounds of her breasts, the merry widow lifted them up to brave new heights they'd never achieved before, the engineering of the thing was really quite marvelous. They almost looked a whole size bigger and the tiny swell of her belly, a figure flaw she'd grown to accept and even admire for it's stubborn refusal to diminish no matter how many sit-ups she did, was flattened and contained behind the satin panels and boning. She checked her watch. Time was flying, getting gussied up sure took a lot of time out of a woman's day. Thank god this wasn't an everyday thing she'd have to do. She didn't think she could stand it. Sara had a whole new appreciation for Gloria Steinem.

Her fingers fumbled on the straps of the garters. Dammit, she could recite the periodic table from memory and take apart a car but could she do this? She slowed down and tried to catch the sheer fabric of the stockings again. Finally she straightened, taking shallow breaths in the snug confines of the merry widow and stepped carefully into the shiny black patent three-inch heels she'd bought, back pain and bunions be dammed. She wobbled and clutched her dresser to steady herself. Once she had her balance, Sara stepped tentatively forward, she felt like she was going to pitch forward and break her leg or something, how the hell had Catherine _danced_ in these things, when she could barely walk?

The trick seemed to be to thrust her weight forward from her hips, a decidedly odd sensation and one that did disturbing things to her normally straightforward loping stride. She kind of wiggled now when she walked.

Wiggling and wobbling she teetered over to the mirror and finally had a look.

She paused for one long minute, and then smiled. The triumphant grin was at odds with the towering sex kitten she saw in the mirror, all long legs, smooth white skin, and sexy black satin. Sara primped and fluffed her hair; the torture of the hot rollers had been worth it. She may not have the trademark Bettie Page bangs, but the soft waves of curls weren't a bad facsimile.

"Anyway, considering the money I've spent, he shouldn't even notice the hair." Sara risked putting one of her hands on her hips, so far so good. She aimed for a more blatant cheesecake pose, legs spread, hips cocked, cleavage on display. She lurched forward and grabbed the footboard of the bed. That was close; she'd almost brained herself. She could just imagine what would happen if Greg found her knocked out cold in this get-up. She'd best find a stationary position and wait for Greg there.

She clambered carefully onto the bed, then kicking off her shoes, she slid down and repositioned the mirror so she could see herself, she climbed back on and put the heels on again, and draped her limbs in a suitably seductive manner, checking all the angles in the mirror.

Satisfied she didn't look like too much of a dork. She leaned back against the bank of pillows she'd piled on the bed and waited for Greg. Her feverish brain mentally listed all of the things she'd meant to do; candles? Check and not the crappy white emergency ones either, but actual nice ones from a store, scented even. Sara could hear the radio playing soft dreamy jazz, she'd given up on finding a radio station for that at this hour and just put a Miles Davis CD on repeat. There was a nice bottle of wine in the fridge and Sara had made arrangements to get sushi delivered later. Cooking for Greg on top of wearing this was a bit much, even if she did like the guy. Her jaws widened in a yawn, she was already up past her normal "bedtime". She'd meant to nap, but had just run out of time. Sara decided she'd just rest her eyes for a few minutes while she waited, Greg should be along any moment…

* * *

_You all know what's coming next, right? _

_--Badgirl_


	8. Showtime!

_Well, I certainly think all of you deserve this after such a long hiatus, thank you to all my readers for sticking with me this far.Some saucy language in this bit, gentle readers. _

_--Badgirl

* * *

Showtime!_

"Where's that whipped cream, I feel like making a Sara sundae!"

The eager voice filtered down and tugged at her brain.

"Sar'? Hello? Sorry I'm late, paperwork…you know how it is."

She needed to be ready for something, what? Was there someone she was supposed to be meeting?

"Are we playing hide and seek, you naughty girl?"

Greg! Her surprise for him! Sara shot upright blinking and disoriented.

"Sara? Are you here?" A tiny note of worry in his voice now.

Sara looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair had flattened on one side and the rest had frizzed up around her face, she pushed it back and saw black smudges under her eyes from the liner, her eyes no longer looked smoky and sexy, no instead they looked more raccoonish and crack whorey. What was she thinking, she didn't look sexy, she looked like a fool. This wasn't her; she was no glamorous seductress. He was going to laugh at her. He was heading towards her bedroom—her robe! She scooted to the edge of the bed and lunged for it but she felt something catch and hold, one of her stupid fuck-me heels. She stumbled forward, hands out to brace herself, and banged into her dresser. Her jewelry box zipped forward like a hockey puck and slammed into the mirror sending a huge crack shooting upward, trinkets and knickknacks scattered everywhere, her clock radio fell on the floor with a crash, briefly emitting one strangled squawk of noise. She heard a thick purring noise as her heel punched through and shredded her comforter, releasing her unexpectedly from its grip. She lurched forward and banged her shoulder hard into the wall.

"Shit!"

"Sara? Are you okay?" Greg pushed open her bedroom door, just in time to catch her as she staggered back and careened into him. Driving him backwards with an audible grunt as they both slammed into the wall, cracking the drywall. A fine rain of plaster dust sifted down.

In the moment of stunned silence that followed, they could very clearly hear Sara's downstairs neighbor thump the ceiling in angry protest. Muffled shouts to "Keep down the fucking noise!" followed.

Sara couldn't help it, she snorted, bit her lip, but the pressure was too much, she leaned forward in Greg's arms and started laughing hysterically. His arms tightened around her waist and he said in a tiny bewildered voice.

"Sara, are you okay?"

This only made her laugh harder. She turned to Greg and shook her head helplessly as laugher bubbled up.

"Sur-surprise!" she managed weakly.

Greg blinked owlishly at her, incredulity flooded his face as he slowly looked around her bedroom and took in the destruction she had wrought, finally he brought his eyes back to her. They widened noticeably when they saw what she was wearing. One of his hands released their grip on her waist and gently stroked the black satin; he looked at her with wonder in his eyes. As if she were some bizarre species of strange and destructive genie he'd just released from the bottle

"Sara?"

"Happy Birthday Greg. You like?"

"You broke your mirror." He pointed dazedly towards the mirror.

"I know. I tripped." She lifted a leg and displayed one of her high heels.

"Oh wow."

"My ankle hurts."

"Oh hey…" Greg moved to her side and supported her as they collapsed on her bed.

"This one?" His hands were warm on her ankle.

"Yeah."

Greg slipped the shoe off and gently rubbed her sore ankle. "Can you move it?"

Sara rotated her ankle, there was a dull ache but already it was diminishing. "Yeah, I think I just went over on it, doesn't feel sprained."

"You sure, I could get some ice?"

"I'm fine, nothing's wounded except for my pride." Sheepishly she looked at the dent in her bedroom wall. "And I guess my room."

Greg grinned at her, "You're something else, Sara. You did all this for my birthday?"

"Yeah."

"But my birthday isn't for another month."

"I wanted to surprise you."

"Mission accomplished." Greg raised his brows at Sara, he looked down at her foot which he still held in his lap, his fingers had found the raised ridge of the seam in her stocking and he caressed her calf, following it.

"Please tell me this goes all the way up?"

"It does."

"Thank you, Jesus."

"Stop it." she said irritably, "I look ridiculous." She crossed her arms over her satin covered tummy, shielding herself from his gaze.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do. This isn't me, look what happened when I tried to pull it off."

Greg looked around her room.

"That could happen to anyone…"

Sara lifted her brows, mouth slanted skeptically.

"Okay, maybe not _everyone._" Greg finished.

"Let me up, I'm going to change." She struggled to sit-up. His hand tightened on her ankle and he tugged her down flat again, her satin covered ass slid easily on the comforter and before she knew it he had leaned forward and planted an arm on either side of her, pinning her beneath him.

"Nuh-uh. No way. If you think I'm going to let you get out of this bed, looking like that, you're crazy."

* * *

_Poor Sara, I turn her into Bridget Jones, don't I? Well, I hope the next part will make her feel better about that. _


	9. Fellini Is Also An F Word

_Well now we get to the juicy parts. It's rated M for a reason, kids, some language and adult situations herein. _

_This has been edited from the final version to conform with the guidelines. The unedited version will be posted in my journal, soonish. _

* * *

Sara was too surprised to react so she just sank back into the pillows, usually they were much further along in their lovemaking before Greg spoke so heatedly to her, despite her annoyance she felt a hot jet of excitement fill the hollow of her chest. His eyes swept over her and she shivered, feeling more naked and exposed in the corset than she ever had before, when she was actually nude in front of him. She was achingly aware of the tight fabric binding her torso, the silky slip of it against her skin, the slightly disconcerting press of the garter belt into her thighs and ass, the rough brush of lace across the tops of her breasts.

"I look awful." She protested weakly, hiding behind a hand that wanted to tremble, feeling the heated blood in her face.

He found her hand and moved it so his lips could trace her jaw, her forehead.

"No, you look amazing, like some Italian babe from a Fellini film, all sexy and mussed and angry…" He whispered softly into her ear as his hand stroked the sleek satin covering her ribs possessively. He lingered, delicately tracing the contour of her breast and when his fingers crossed the juncture from satin to skin, she shivered.

"Fellini?" She was slightly breathless now.

"Uh-huh…" His mouth was on her throat, not biting, not quite but just enough that her pulse kicked up in response.

"Never knew you were such a movie buff…" The sentence ended in a groan when his knee slid up between her thighs and pressed deliciously against her. He threaded his fingers with hers and pinned her hands above her head.

"I'm not. I just like watching a woman who looks like she's just aching to get fucked." He tried to sound conversational but need roughened his voice, made it shake.

His crudeness made her eyes widen, the dark pounding feeling that had been building in her broke free and she couldn't hold back the tiny moan. It was out before she had a chance to bite down on it. He heard her, he always did. He leaned in close, eyes fixed on her mouth. She wasn't aware that she'd been licking her lips in anticipation.

"And are you? Just aching? Tell me, Sar'."

She arched against him, grinning sinfully when his lean hips met hers and he pressed her down again. She could feel him, his need was a rude thrust against the rough fabric of his jeans, and she felt herself get even wetter imagining how good it would feel inside her, but instead of pinning her down and just taking her like she knew they both wanted, Greg did the worst thing possible.

He kissed her. No hard press of tongue and lips but rather a slow tease that made her groan when he ended it by nibbling and sucking on her lower lip. He drew back and considered her, grinned lazily at the sight of her pinned hands flexing above the gentle circle of his own, the mottled red splotches that were starting to creep across her neck and down her chest, the need and frustration her knitted brow and sulky pout was conveying.

"No good, Sidle." When she frowned he continued, "Not the kiss…no that was great. You know what I want."

"Please, Greg."

"That's a good start." He settled himself more comfortably between her spread legs, acting as if he was prepared to wait a while.

She bucked under him, getting desperate now and he rode her movement easily, tightening his hold on her wrists slightly.

"Ah-ah, don't be so impatient," he chided.

"Dammit, you want it as bad as I do!"

She started to rock against him, against the hardness that promised so much, she was slippery wet in her soaked panties; the friction felt good and she saw she had begun to make messy wet spots on the front of his jeans. The sight was thrilling and dirty and exciting all mixed up at once. A hot spark of triumph galvanized her when he finally surrendered and joined in; grinding and rubbing against her like they were just two horny teenagers who could barely wait to get off.

Her eyes were challenging as she stared him down; wickedly she smiled and started groaning, the way she knew he liked, naughty little puffs and pants of sound.

"Oh no fair, Sara no fair…" he closed his eyes and rocked against her, "…you…"

"What? What am I, Greg? Tell me."

"So fucking beautiful…"

"Yeah?"

"Sexy little bitch…"

"That's right. And?"

"Going to fuck you so hard…" His eyes opened and locked on hers, the raw want and need in them dried up the next words in her throat, instead a long wanton moan sang out and like some hussy Sara spread her legs as wide as she could for him, wanting him inside her, needing it, or else she might go mad.

* * *

_I know. I left you hanging. I'm wicked._

_Stay tuned for the next part, gentle readers._


End file.
